


Anaesthetic

by Cohens_Girl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Cuddles, Gen, Kind of non-con, M/M, Nightmares, Of The Mind, POV Second Person, Poe's pov, This Has Probably Been Done 100 Times But Oh Well, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:31:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: You do not sleep, after Kylo Ren.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Carrie. I wish you weren't the impetus for me getting this done. You were strong and so beautiful and you deserved so much more time. You will always be royalty my darling, and I raise my glass to you.
> 
> This just...kept growing. It was only meant to be small. A lot of it was written in response to seeing Force Awakens at the cinema for the first time – but then I got stuck and I left it, and, well, I finally came back and finished it. Drunk. Don't judge me, I was really damn sad. It's ended up a bit freeform because of it, but I figured if I didn't post it now, I'd never post it.
> 
> It might seem a bit Rey-bashing; it isn't meant to be. I felt that Poe would probably blame her for leaving, is all, and it's his POV.
> 
> Poe hurts so prettily, doesn't he? 
> 
> The italics are from Aubade by Philip Larkin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

_Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare._

_In time the curtain-edges will grow light._

_Till then I see what’s really always there_

*

 

You do not sleep, after Kylo Ren.

 

It doesn't matter, at first; you don't have the time for it, after crashing the Tie Fighter into the middle of the kriffing desert – find yourself more concerned with the hot dust caked in your nose and clinging to your throat, the clothes and skin raked clean off your back. A thousand hard little grains rubbed into your open wounds, sand and blood congealing into a black stain on the dunes; between that and searching for BB-8 and blowing Starkiller to smithereens, you never really have the chance to stop -

 

 _Don't stop, don't_ think -

 

\- and even after, when you do have a moment of respite, you spend every waking moment in the infirmary with Finn waiting for him to come round. Passing out after hours of clinging to cold, limp fingers is more like being sucker-punched than actually sleeping.

 

You wait for days, an aching, unshaven mess, stiff limbs tangled into a plastic chair; eventually time slips out of focus and the smell of bacta becomes a second skin, the white walls more familiar than your own bunk. Days of watching him breathe, in and out and in and out, days of talking non-stop about everything and nothing, somehow certain that you need to be at his side - though for the life of you, you don't know why. It isn't like you really _know_ the kid, after all.

 

Then Finn is blinking up at you, finally, _finally,_ and sleep is the furthest thing from your mind. The onslaught of gut-wrenching reliefis cut short, however, by his wide eyes, his words,

 

“Where is Rey?” and it shocks you, how suddenly your heart turns to lead and sinks like a stone in your chest.

 

Of course he wants Rey. She's the one who ought to be here : that's how all the romantic vids end, isn't it?

 

But she had bigger, better things to do than wait, didn't she? You fidget, burning with a shame that doesn't belong to you; you can't meet his gaze, instead try to explain to his bedsheets why Rey isn't here – but it all comes out wrong. It sounds so inadequate, coming from you.

 

“I understand.” He mumbles. You know that he doesn't.

 

“You'll see her again.” You tell him, giving him your best cocky smile and patting him on the chest. It isn't a lie, not exactly; even if she does not come back for him, you know in your heart that Finn will search her out when he is fit enough. You might not know the kid but you've seen enough to know that much.

 

He nods and stares at the wall.

 

You clear your throat and pretend not to see the wetness in his eyes, or to feel the mutual sting in your own.

 

*

 

Kylo Ren stalks through your dreams.

 

He sees all the buried parts of yourself : all the worst, most twisted things you've felt and thought, every vile and harmful word you've said in foolish anger. He basks in your darkest moments like a pig rolling around in the mud, relishing the feel of your longest-held hurts, of the suffering you've knowingly caused. All the intricate agonies of each past rejection, the rib-wrenching grief of the people you have lost –

 

Your _mother_ , so beautiful, so strong, the most courageous woman you have ever known -

 

Her face in your memory and he sneers, carves her out, turns her iron-oil scent and brown silk hair over in his hands until his fingerprints are littered all over them, dirtying them, staining them forever.

 

And, oh, Muran – your heart flails at the thought of him, the guilt an open wound that bleeds still. _He didn't need to die._ Except that there is another voice, now, another voice that speaks alongside yours and tells you that he was worthless, he was expendable. He was no one and nothing. You don't want to believe it – you know that voice is _wrong –_ but it's become so hard to root out those ugly whispers, to remember which words are your own.

 

Even in sleep, it hurts to silence him; like trying to dig out a shard of glass that's embedded in your flesh.

 

You scream, _agony, agony,_ and he laughs at you, the sound reverberating through your bones -

 

_How pathetic_

 

\- and this is why you did not sleep, why you will never sleep, why you will never be able spend another moment without this sickness bubbling under your skin.

 

You stumble from your bed, sweat barely dried and tears stiff on your cheeks; walk around the base wild-eyed and frantic, ragged breaths bouncing against the walls. The corridors are quiet at night and you haunt them, his hands in your head, his touch intimate and repulsive in equal measure -

 

be quiet, _be quiet, be_ QUIET-!

 

You find your way back to Finn's side. How or why or to what end you do not know but you are here, and his breaths are long and low and steady in sleep; you recognise the rhythm, familiar, comforting, the hours spent listening to it ingrained into your consciousness.

 

You believe with all that you are that his sleep is as sweet, as peaceful as it deserves to be. He's healing, now, talks and reads and plays cards with you – worst Pazaak opponent you've had in some time, possibly the worst player in existence _–_ and every moment spent with him reinforces your first impressions. He is smart, he is kind, he is _good_. You flop onto the floor, push your spine up against the bed-frame and count off X-Wing engine parts until your eyelids grow heavy.

 

You sit, holding your knees, hoping against hope that he will not wake to see you curled into a ball, shaking on the floor.

 

*

 

You wake after an hour, perhaps two – leave him to float spectre-like through the halls, numb and blind and feeling utterly adrift. It's a relief when you find BB-8, hovering around your ship with the air of an anxious parent, warbling to himself unhappily.

 

Greeting him is like remembering who you are; suddenly you know how to breathe and how to smile.

 

The two of you head over to the training ground together – a bit of exercise might help, you figure, a way to clear the lingering cobwebs from your mind – but then you catch a glimpse of General Organa, shoulders curled inward and mouth drawn into a thin line, watching your newest recruits running drills. Before you can contemplate it your feet are taking you over to her, almost as if they have a will of their own.

 

She acknowledges you with a nod; BB-8 rocks back and forth quietly, anxiety inherent in the jerky movements.

 

The two of you stand side by side, close enough to touch – when she doesn't question it, a small and insidious voice inside you wonders if she _brought you here_ against your will. Something settles in the silence between you, something heavy and unspoken that you are too afraid to examine and have no clue how to address. The sun is high and bright and you focus instead on the way it blankets your skin in warm, white light, on the sounds of feet pounding against the dirt.

 

“Poe.” She says, abruptly, and you flinch bodily beside her. “I feel him, when I'm with you.”

 

You turn to her, your general, the woman to whom you have pledged allegiance above all others.

 

You have never feared her before in your life.

 

There are no words in your mouth, just a ringing in your mind - a strange sort of reciprocity, a familiarity that reflexively, unthinkingly, reaches out towards her.

 

General Organa stares into your eyes, a pit of bottomless brown, looking for something that cannot be there - _it_ _can't be there, please -_

 

“I know you think him evil,” She murmurs, her voice taut, brittle enough to break, “And you have every right. But do not hate him, Poe. Please.” The desperation in her face, the too-early lines and undeserved misery, shakes you to the core. “There is no worse thing you could do.”

 

It would be unprofessional to hug her, so you take her by the shoulder instead, squeezing gently. She smiles, though there is no happiness in it. You can feel her pain as keenly as you might feel a knife in your side, pushing through skin and blood and flesh to cut at your very core.

 

“He's your son.” and you still love him.

 

What else is there to say?

 

She nods once and turns away, her jaw rigid; you take it as your cue to leave. You amble along the corridors of the base, trying with all your might not to imagine your past self bumping into the walls, clawing at them, the desperation to just _get back to Finn_ overriding all rational sense. BB-8 bumbles along next to you, trilling a jumble of sounds that express his agitation, words tumbling over each other in a frenzied attempt to express his concern for you. He can feel your unease better than any 'person', knows you in ways that no human ever has; your pain is hurting him too and somehow that knowledge helps you to straighten out the thoughts that keep getting lost, allows you to focus your mind.

 

You drop to a crouch and offer him a smile that is sincere, if perhaps more lacklustre than you had intended.

 

“S'okay, little buddy.” You pat him gently on the head, to which he grumbles softly. The chuckle that bursts from your chest is real and loosens some of the ache that had been growing there. “We're gonna get in the fresher and then go see Finn, yeah? Should get there in time for his – therapy...stuff.” You stand, buoyed by purpose; BB-8 trails after you, emitting a questioning whine.

 

_Fresher?...We?!_

 

*

 

Leaning lazily against the bed-frame, watching your friend ease his way inch by painstaking inch onto his feet, you feel a little more like yourself. There is no time and no place for Kylo Ren, not right now, not when you are with Finn. He has sacrificed so much to be here. For once in his life, he deserves to have someone's undivided attention - and you are determined to give it to him.

 

“You didn't have to come.” He mumbles but his expression tells a different story; bashful gratitude and heart-breaking relief war for precedence on his face. You shake your head and chuckle and hope that is answer enough.

 

Dumb kid. No way in Hell you were gonna let him do this on his own.

 

The nurse tut-tuts at you getting in her way until you settle yourself on the mattress, loose-limbed and easy as anything, grinning artlessly at him. You know too well what it is like to be injured, to suddenly realise just how much you take your body for granted; you've no way to fix his wounds but you hope that having someone else along for the ride might make it just that little bit more bearable.

 

In the end, you do little more than quietly observe, offering the occasional encouragement while he performs a series of gentle stretches that leave him sweaty and panting. It's clearly a struggle, under-used muscles trembling with exertion but Finn merely grits his teeth and powers through. He seems to savour being back on his feet, asking to carry on even when the nurse tells him he can stop, a vigour in his expression and his movements that hasn't been present since -

 

Oh.

 

Something stirs inside you – it takes a moment to recognise it as pride, a sunlit glow, swelling in your chest. There's something else, too, something that you can't put a name to; terrifying and beautiful, beating in tandem with your heart, pulsing ice-hot through your veins.

 

You don't examine it too closely, simply embrace it, let the feeling wrap around your bones, become a part of you.

 

It feels...good. Scary, but good. Like you were meant to be here.

 

It doesn't take much longer for Finn to wear himself out; he's clearly exhausted. Finally forced to admit defeat, he drops down on the bed next to you and bumps your shoulder; except that he doesn't quite meet your eyes, awkward and embarrassed and clearly looking for reassurance.

 

You knock your knuckles against his knee gently.

 

“Lookin' good, buddy.”

 

He smiles, shy but luminous, eyes brighter than they have been since he opened them to see you instead of _her_.

 

“Thanks.”

 

*

 

Invading Finn's room and stealing a part of his day becomes an integral part of your routine.

 

He doesn't seem to mind – or if he does, he's polite enough not to say so. When you express this sentiment to BB-8 the droid says something impatient in a language that you don't recognise and rolls away chirruping in a manner that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

 

You don't dare translate the words, preferring to remain in blissful ignorance.

 

Each new visit brings visible improvement; before long, Finn is eagerly sharing information about the First Order even as he's ordered to rest, limping around and cracking wise and generally making a nuisance of himself. He's started to recapture some of that wonderful, free-spirited nature that you recall from your first meeting – you can finally see your impromptu rescuer in Finn's eyes, his enthusiasm for every 'new' thing he discovers boundless and almost impossibly endearing.

 

The nurses absolutely adore him but, Finn being Finn, he appears to be completely oblivious to it.

 

You try not to be too over-protective – which is, as it turns out, _exceptionally_ hard where Finn is concerned – but even so, you're smart enough to...censor certain parts of the learning process. Not like he needs to know _everything_ the First Order has been doing – or destroying - just yet. You don't want his head to explode. Besides, it's clear to you that he carries around enough guilt as it is, always apologising as if he was the one running the kriffing show and – no. Damn it, just, no. Finn was brave enough to turn his back on those brain-washing bastards and he ought to be allowed to feel _proud_ of that; he realised what he was doing was _wrong_ and he chose to do what was _right_. How many people could say the same? You choose not to indulge any of his shame, instead doing your best to avoid topics that might incite it - bit by bit, you introduce to him to your favourite holo-vids, art, music; you show him around the hangar and bring him to your ship, talk him through some simple repairs, revelling in his exuberance, his pure desire to _learn_.

 

At first, the time you spend together is short and often monitored – he's still healing, after all - but as the days pass, his stints in your company grow longer and longer. The pallor of his skin starts to return to normal, the stiffness in his limbs becoming less and less pronounced. An hour becomes two, becomes three, becomes an entire morning; before you know it, your day starts to revolve around the time you spend with the younger man. As you work – on your ship, on his physical therapy, while he is reading about all the things the First Order would never have taught him - you begin to tell him the stories passed down to you, tales your mother told you as a child; of old battles, defeats and triumphs, the origins of the Rebellion.

 

He smiles like every story is a secret shared only with him; he's so trusting, and it's so damn _adorable,_ that you find yourself telling him things you've never told anyone, before - about the ramshackle walls of wood and clay you called a home, back on Yavin 4. The smell of earth and sap worked deep into your skin and the incredible brightness of the sun – how you would climb up onto the roof with your father just to see the sunset, splashed in violent red across the sky. You describe the jungles for him, the humid-heat so thick you could almost taste it and imitate for him the bird-sounds of the jungle, just to hear him laugh. You explain, in intricate detail, how the other colonists taught you to climb the spines of particular trees to find the round, pink fruit that would grow there and how _sweet_ it was.

 

It feels natural when you tell him, voice low and reverent, of how it felt to sit in your mothers lap and ride around in the heap of junk she called a ship – how it smelt like rust and burning, how it tripped and sputtered across the sky. For the first time since Kylo Ren, the memories don't wound – you feel nothing but a bitter-sweet sense of pride and happiness when you recall for him her quiet words of encouragement as you first took the controls for yourself. It is a pleasure to describe the sudden rush of _freedom_ , the soaring feeling that sung through your blood; how you knew, then and there, that you were built for the sky.

 

You'll remember that stupid, stubborn, _beautiful_ ship until the day you die; remember every dent and creak, every square inch of the patchwork of metal that made up that terrible beast. It doesn't feel strange to tell Finn this, doesn't feel like you are revealing too much – how could it when he simply beams back at you, delighting in your memories as though by knowing he has a share in them, too?

 

 _It sounds perfect_ , he says; _this is good, too_ you tell him, surprised to find that you mean it.

 

Even if you wake at night screaming, you go to bed with a smile on your face and there is something to be said for that.

 

Finn, for his part, blushes like a schoolgirl and says nothing. You clear your throat and wring your hands, suddenly aware of how close you are sitting and how easy it would be to lean over press against him, how _comfortable_ it might feel.

 

BB-8 coos.

 

You walk Finn to the mess hall in an awkward muddle of bumping shoulders and coy smiles. It's something that you've started doing recently, to prolong your time with the other man; the nurses always scold you for being late but it's worth it to grab a final cup of caf together, a few more minutes before you go back to trying to save the world.

 

Or, you know. Doing recon. The First Order have been unsurprisingly quiet these last few weeks.

 

You are half-way through a somewhat embellished version of one of your more daring escapades when a conversation in your periphery catches your attention, your neck snapping round with enough speed to give you whiplash.

 

Your brain skids to a halt.

 

It's just two words. They don't have any power. They're just _sounds._

 

Kylo Ren. You dreamt of him last night, same as every other night.

 

Kylo Ren. Turning his name over in your mind is like poking at a loose tooth, trying the exposed nerve underneath just to see if it still hurts.

 

You wince, gasping.

 

“Poe?” Finn asks softly; his fingers settle at your wrist, the barest hint of contact.

 

You turn to him, eyes wide. You brain shifts back into gear so sharply your whole body pitches; it takes another moment to right yourself, to remember where you are. Finn looks – well, you don't recognise the expression, actually, but _scared_ probably comes close. You try for a reassuring smile, shaking like a leaf, knowing full well that it doesn't reach your eyes. Finn opens his mouth and then promptly closes it again, nudging your caf a little closer to you instead.

 

“Could you – maybe, teach me a little more about your ship, tomorrow?” He asks, haltingly, lips quirking uncertainly. He's offering you a way out, you realise - and you take it in a heartbeat, forgoing the rest of your story in favour of launching into an animated lecture about the proper maintenance of the S-foils and thanking your lucky stars that Finn is _Finn_.

 

*

 

Two weeks later, you find yourself in an empty room, staring at an empty bed, frowning in confusion.

 

“Well,” the nurse says, slapping a holo-pad into your chest, “I couldn't very well keep him here forever, could I?” She goes a very becoming shade of pink and purses her lips, clearly doing her best not to giggle. “Lovely as that would be.” She winks at you and scuttles off whilst you stare dumbly at the bright letters declaring Finn

 

DISCHARGED

 

You start grinning. Grinning like a damn lunatic. _Discharged._ Finally!

 

Honestly, you can't get out of the medical wing fast enough.

 

BB-8 trills something faintly behind you that sounds an awful lot like _overeager_ and _puppy_ but you ignore it; he gives up following you pretty quickly, anyway. You're fairly sure he's taken a shine to one of the medical droids.

 

Finding Finn turns out to be more of an adventure than you had anticipated. You check all of the obvious places first – the mess hall, the rec room, the general's office. Nothing. You try your room, your ship, the training area. No luck.

 

You end up standing at the end of a corridor, out of breath and ideas, feeling rather deflated. He's finally _free_ , for kriff's sake. Just where the Hell -

 

“Looking for Finn?” Pava has a wolfish grin on her face, arms folded over her chest. You have the good grace to blush and clear your throat, feeling a little like you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

 

“Maybe.” You grouse, pulling a face at her. “Why? You seen him?”

 

She hooks a thumb over her shoulder.

 

“He's outside moping. You two have _got_ to sort your sh-” You don't bother listening to the end of her sentence. _Outside_. Of _course_ he's outside! He's been stuck inside for _six weeks_ – where else would he be?

 

You really are a first class dumbass.

 

Stepping outside, you spot him right away. He looks...vulnerable and very young, standing in the glow of one of the sentry lamps, staring out into the darkness.

 

Maybe he wants to be alone. You really ought to let him be alone. You _have_ been badgering him a lot, lately. He'll come and find you when he's ready, right?

 

Your body doesn't want to listen, leads you over step by step by step until you are standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder, peering out into the night.

 

“Hey.” You murmur, casting a glance his way. A lop-sided smile slowly spreads across your face, despite yourself. You just can't help it, when you're with him. “So this is where you've been hiding.”

 

Finn doesn't exactly seem surprised to see you; you could almost believe that he was avoiding you on purpose, except that the rigid planes of his body begin to relax unconsciously and he huffs a laugh that sounds altogether too fond to be angry. You tap his elbow with your own, hoping to dispel the grim aura he seems to be wallowing in; he lilts your way, then seems to catch himself, an unhappy smile twisting across his face.

 

Suddenly the reason for his hesitance is blindingly obvious, the kriffing bloody _idiot_. He doesn't know what to do now, is probably overwhelmed by the sudden sense of freedom; he doesn't know the rules, doesn't recognise all the social cues you take for granted, not yet. You'd be willing to bet he's convinced himself that everything that's been growing between you these last few weeks has all been pity.

 

He's afraid of expecting too much.

 

He doesn't have to say _I have nowhere to go_ or _I don't know anyone_ ; you know both of those things to be true, the same way that you knew, from the moment you learned that he had been discharged, that he would be staying with you.

 

It isn't pity. It was never pity.

 

“Not hiding.” He says firmly, looking up towards the stars; you marvel at their brightness, refracted in his eyes. “Just fancied some fresh air.”

 

You laugh and shake your head, punching him lightly on the arm.

 

He's a terrible liar.

 

“C'mon, buddy. You're bunkin' with me.”

 

*

 

He looks dreadfully insecure, a quivering parenthesis hugging your door-frame, all of his worldly possessions packed into a small cloth bag and clutched in his hands.

 

“Are you sure about this?” He whispers, searching your face with an intensity that is unfamiliar, looking for some weakness, some regret that doesn't exist. You fold your arms at him and raise your eyebrows in a way that you hope says, _Don't be a idiot, Finn._ He ducks his head and grins, mutters, “Yeah, ok.”

 

Mission accomplished.

 

You give him the grand tour – bed, holo-screen, fresher, bookshelf – before flicking on the screen, flopping down on the floor and curling up in a blanket.

 

You are abruptly very aware that you are bone-tired, utterly hollowed out and completely spent.

 

But Finn is new here and isn't convinced he belongs, yet; that much is clear from every indecisive, hopeful gaze he aims your way, from every ordinary assumption he refuses to make – _for kriff's sake, Finn,_ of course _it's all right to borrow a t-shirt –_ worse, from every shaky, damp-eyed smile he produces when you introduce him to people as _my buddy, Finn._

 

You want him to belong, want him to belong so badly that your chest aches for him, so instead of giving in to exhaustion, you smile over at the bed and ask him brightly,

 

“Wanna watch a movie?”

 

The tense uncertainty leaks from his body, his sprawled form slowly relaxing on top of your covers. He nods carefully, curling onto his side towards you at some odd angle that he has obviously long since learned is the least painful.

 

Your door slides open and BB-8 rolls in, finding his place at your side and nestling in against your ribs without fan-fare. Finn snickers, says nothing.

 

Something wordless slots into place; something you hadn't realised was fissured suddenly feels _whole_ and you grin in response, worn-down and a little loopy but perfectly content.

 

“Good.” You tell him firmly, “'Cause you've got a few decades to catch up on, and I know just where to start.”

 

*

 

You don't wake screaming and pawing at the air – and at least that would be tangible, at least that would feel _normal –_ instead find yourself gasping for breath as a tumult of emotions and memories bleed freely from your fractured mind.

 

Confusion and anguish and instinctive fear; white blinding sun that scalps your retinas and the great raging scar across Finn's back – skin scorched and melted into a misshapen cavern of scar tissue - your father's grief-stricken expression, _what do you mean KIA_? _We have a_ son _-!_ They are all swimming around and tumbling over each other, unable to settle, unable to take root.

 

The floor is hard so you reach for that, splay your fingers across the cool ground, letting it anchor you.

 

General Organa's face cuts briefly across the surface of your mind – she's crouching and smiling and offering out her arms, young and beautiful with joy. You curl in on yourself reflexively, wonder just how much of himself he left inside you.

 

Your groan is torn from you, when it comes : high-pitched and grotesque, a mixture of horror and frustration gripping your chest and clamping around your throat. You got away, you _escaped_ , and yet you are still there, still in that chair, the promise of torture sprawling out infinitely before you.

 

“Poe...?”

 

Finn's voice slices through the darkness, shakes you from the waking nightmare. You blink dizzily at your bookcase, registering that you are standing; it is a struggle to relax your hands where they had been clutching, white-knuckled, at the blankets. Slowly, as if somehow you can do it without Finn noticing, you slide your way back down to the floor, trembling like a newborn.

 

You should never have invited Finn to your quarters in the first place, should have known better than to inflict this on him; the kid had just looked so – so lost, so small and vulnerable and alone...Wearing your jacket like it was all he had left in the world, how could you _leave_ him like that?

 

You couldn't.

 

But now he's staring at you with those big dark eyes, the question he doesn't need to voice plainly writ in the moonlit crescent of his face : the worry-creases and pursed lips, the flexing fingers itching to act, rustling against the bedsheets. He doesn't know how to push, yet, or when. He never had the chance to learn, for kriff's sake, and he deserves that chance, but – Force, not now, and not like this.

 

How are you supposed to explain how it felt? To have someone's fingers crawling through your brain, taking each and every memory and forcibly digging it out, bloody grooves left weeping on the inside of your skull; to have every important fact and feeling, every face and name you've ever laid your eyes on clawed out and tossed aside like they are worthless – the struggle to resist, to _fight,_ damn it _, don't give in_ and simultaneously gather up the fragments of yourself that he is steadily, methodically tearing free and thoughtlessly discarding.

 

How do you tell Finn that afterwards, it isn't like it all slots prettily back into place? That everything you've ever known is inside out and upside down and you feel naked, and broken, and _violated_ ; that you can still feel _him_ , his presence echoing inside of you even now, the memory of his violence ghosting along the canals in your mind, his sick hatred imprinted on the blood that runs through your veins. How can you find the words to explain these things that you don't want him to know, tell him of the shattered sensation that you don't even want to admit to yourself?

 

BB-8 trills softly, bumping repeatedly into your legs until you gather him into your arms, holding him close. _Breathebreathebreathe_ he coos against you, a mantra, a measured set of beeps that you adhere to, breathing again and again and again until the revulsion starts to recede.

 

“I'm ok.” You tell him in a whisper, because you need to hear it too. “I'm ok. I'm ok.”

 

Not for the first time, you wish BB-8 had the arms to hold you back. His low, mournful whistle hums across your skin; you know he's feeling the same, in his own way.

 

You don't recognise that Finn is moving until his hands are hauling you and the droid cradled against your chest onto the bed. He does it much as he does everything else, on instinct and without forethought because that is all he knows. You flinch and quiver, lamb-like and pitiful, but do not protest or attempt to pull away; you shouldn't use him like this, not when he's still recovering, still learning what it means to really be _human_ \- but you feel defenceless, ripped-open.

 

A few seconds of weakness, that's all.

 

“You're – safe.” He murmurs, wrapping himself around you. “I won't let anyone hurt you.” And you believe it, because that's who he is. He broke you out _because it was the right thing to do_ , and, and he went back for Rey, walked right into the belly of the beast for her, picked up a lightsaber and fought a battle he couldn't hope to win rather than let any harm come to her. That's Finn; that's the part of him that no amount of training could drill out, fiercely loyal and insensibly brave, and that man would die before he let any harm come to you.

 

You press your forehead against his chest, to let him know how much you appreciate the gesture, tears you hadn't noticed soaking into his t-shirt. The dull ache that has been scratching at the base of your skull grows still, the sudden reprieve so intense a relief that you half-laugh, half-sob into the fabric.

 

He jolts at the sound, holds you tighter.

 

It feels completely, ineffably natural to be held here in his arms.

 

His fingers wind gingerly into your hair, rubbing at your scalp whilst gently holding you in place, tucked under his chin. The motion is unpractised and fumbling and kriff, just _wonderful_. BB-8 warbles quietly into the crook of your arm, _Hey, what about me?_ And you know that Finn can't understand what your little buddy is saying but he still reaches over to pull the droid into the space between your bodies, where he sighs warmly.

 

“ _Finn._ ” You choke out, moved by the gesture; he whispers,

 

“Is this ok?”

 

He took the name you gave him and made it his own, he busted you from the worst kind of Hell and, and, so much important - he wore your jacket like it was some sort of relic, like he was keeping your memory alive. How could _this_ not be ok?

 

“Yeah,” You mumble, “Yeah. This s'good.”

 

He pulls at the duvet until its settled vaguely around you both, cocooned, secure, and you find yourself smiling against him, the curve of your lips absorbed by his chest. It feels right, here like this. Just like him sitting in your gunner seat, just like the hug you shared when he realised you _weren't dead_ , just like sitting by his bedside for all those hours you thought he might be. He strokes your hair slowly, once, twice, three times, pausing when his fingers slide from hair to skin like it is a novelty, as if he expects you to push him away at any given moment. Your breaths start to even, eyes flickering shut despite the fact that you want to savour this moment, want it to last a little longer, a few more seconds...

 

But, despite all attempts to hold it at bay, sleep comes; safe and warm and protected, Finn's chest rumbling with soft words you cannot hear.

 

Sleep comes, and Kylo Ren is nowhere to be found.

 

*

 


End file.
